


old story based on story prompt

by redbeardsghost



Category: all OCs - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 05:28:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21069647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbeardsghost/pseuds/redbeardsghost
Summary: written specifically for my daughter. The prompt was simply to include the phrase “Listen. You must be very careful. Your father is not who he says he is, and you are in grave danger."





	old story based on story prompt

It was a rare thing to get to watch TV with just my dad. He was gone so much. The divorce meant that he was supposed to see me several times a year, in spite of being on the other side of the country, but somehow there was never enough money for plane tickets. He did try to come visit as often as he could, but that meant usually about once a year, for a combination end of school year/father’s day visit, and as often as not he would leave before father’s day because of some unspecified emergency. 

But this year we were at his house, a tiny walkup loft in the Dogpatch district. He had bought each of us plane tickets, but had staggered them so we were visiting him one on one, the only way we could fit in such a tiny space (and even then, I was sleeping on an air mattress on the floor because my dad slept on the couch and there was no bed).

We were binge watching a favorite anime of mine. He clearly hated the show, but even so, he was able to make intelligent comments about it. That was his way — no matter what he talked about, he knew how to sound like he was at least competent, and often sounded like an expert in it. I asked him why once, and he said something about being a writer, and listening more than you spoke, and relating the subject to things you knew, but my mother said that intelligence was his strongest suit, and glared darkly as though it were something she didn’t want to talk about. This episode was about changing the future, and time being a river, with puddles, and he seemed delighted by the idea of puddles.

The episode ended, and he got up to make room for more coffee. He certainly drank a lot of it, and it didn’t seem to interfere with his sleep at all. I didn’t know how he did it, but while the caffeine might not have the typical effect on his brain, it certainly had the typical effect on his bladder. As soon as the door closed, the BluRay shut off and the TV went to static. I groaned and checked, but no, it was still on. It must have gotten unplugged or something. I walked over to the TV to check the cables. As I got near, I heard a woman’s voice call my name from the TV. I looked at it, but it was still showing static, but the sound had gone dead. Then it called my name again, and said “Listen. You must be very careful. Your father is not who he says he is, and you are in grave danger.”

I wasn’t sure I had heard anything, but then the bathroom door opened and the video cut back in.

We sat down and watched the next episode, and the next. I tried to forget what had happened, because it was too weird. I certainly didn’t want to say anything to my dad, and ruin this trip. There would be time enough for that when I went back to Philadelphia.

The next morning when I woke up, my dad was talking to someone at the door. I guess that the knocking had woken me up. He glanced over at me, and said something about having something to take care of and to go back to sleep, that he would be back soon. He went outside to finish talking to whoever had come for him, and I pulled the blanket over my shoulder to get more sleep.

When I woke up, he wasn’t back from whatever errand he had gone on. I decided to make breakfast for both of us. He usually made us bacon and eggs, but he had taught us all to cook before he left, so I had no difficulty. 

That is, I had no difficulty making enough for two. I was having trouble eating enough for one, because he still hadn’t shown up. I tried texting him, but he didn’t respond. It felt weird being at his house with him not there. It was weird enough when he was there, but now that I was alone, I started looking around and I realized that the place seemed to have been set up just to have us kids stay with him. There was a huge TV and a couch, there were pots and pans and dishes, and in fact the spice rack was the only thing about the place that seemed like he used it often. No pictures except the ones he had taken of each of our first steps, in tiny frames on top of the TV. It was as though he wasn’t really expecting to stay here long.

I knew he had stuff from around the world, from before he met mom and had traveled a lot. I remember it being around the house when I was young, and I knew he had taken it with him. I wondered where it was. And just like that, the vice was back. I wondered what it meant, and if it was just my subconscious telling me that something was wrong.

The house was so quiet that the knock on the door made me jump and knock over my TV tray. There was no table, and we ate at the couch on these trays. Everything in the place was done for space-saving.

I went and peeked through the transom. There was no one there. I could hear someone moving outside, though, as though they were trying to hide. This seems odd, and when piled on top of your thoughts a moment before, you aren’t sure you want to open the door. On the one hand, your dad is totally the type to prank you by knocking at his own door and then hiding. On the other one, you are mad at him for not being there when you are upset. Then you see the knob, which had been locked, starts to turn. I quickly closed the chain and back away.

The door opens a little, just enough for it to be evident that the chain is locked, and then a curious tool is poked through the open door and onto the chain. The door closes, and the chain falls off the door. You run into the bathroom and close the door. Does it have a lock? It does, and I lock it. I can hear someone moving through the apartment now, moving the couch, pulling out the drawers in the entertainment center, and other sounds I don’t recognize. I wish there was a transom in the bathroom door.

Then the window opening. That can’t be, the window doesn’t work. My dad told you that your first day here. Suddenly a loud thump. Did they knock the TV down? My dad’s going to be pissed if they broke that. More footsteps. Suddenly someone knocking at the door. The bathroom door. Whoever it is knows where I am. “Alex? It’s OK, I’m looking for your father. Can you tell me where he went?” A badge slides under the bathroom door. It’s an agent from the FBI. The world goes black.

I woke up on the couch. The apartment was messier than I had ever seen it. The TV was still; in place, but most of the drawers were stacked upside down on the floor next to the ancient entertainment center. My bed was on the floor, and was cut in pieces. The couch was in the middle of the room. I wasn’t sure what else was out of place yet, but there were two strangers in the apartment. One was the man who had slid his ID under the bathroom door. The other was a woman, and was dressed in similar loose clothes.

“You broke into my dad’s apartment.”

“No, someone else did. We followed. They’re on their way to jail right now.” The man seemed satisfied with himself. “ But right now we need to know what happened.”

“I think I had a seizure.” I knew I hadn’t, of course. There was no post-ictal syndrome, and I hadn’t started with a migraine before I blacked out, which was very consistent for me. They didn’t have to know that, though. I had a medalert bracelet for seizures, and I had found it a convenient excuse for not talking several times before. IT gave me more time to collect my thoughts. Right now, my thoughts were all centered on the voice I had heard from the TV last night. 

“Do you remember the thief saying anything before you did? Do your father say anything about where he was going or when he’d be back?”

“No, I ‘m not sure. It’s hazy. I just has a seizure.” The woman leaned over and whispered something to the man.

“OK. Get some rest. We’ll come back later. Please stay here, and be careful, OK?” They locked the door and went outside.

As soon as they did, I got up and looked out the transom. They were standing outside the door, talking, but I couldn’t hear anything they were saying. I went to the window which was still open. I looked out. There was a small balcony and a fire escape. There was also a man in a suit at the bottom of the fire escape. I looked around and saw the neighbor across the alley talking on the phone. I was pretty sure they were drug dealers — there was a constant coming and going at that apartment, and there didn’t seem to be any real resident there. I had seen the signs before, and my dad had told me what it meant. He had always told me to pay attention to the details, and to notice things. I noticed that these people never spoke to the neighbors, but had a lot of visitors. I noticed that they usually only stayed for a few minutes, rarely as ling as ten. The guy who was there now seemed to be one of the guys who “lived” there in shifts, at least in the four days I had been there. This was the first time I had seen him on the phone, though. He glanced at the window again, and then walked further into the apartment, where I couldn’t see him.

I turned around to see the two agents standing there, looking at me. This time it was the woman who spoke.

“We left because I know what epilepsy is like, and am familiar with post ictal syndrome. Familiar enough to know that you are lying about having just had a seizure. Perhaps you would like to tell us where your father really is?”

I stood, dumbfounded. It wasn’t just that I had been caught out. Anyone who has had a seizure would know that coming out of a seizure sucks, and that I would be going back to sleep until I was less disoriented if I had just had one. No, what had me floored is that she had the voice. The one that spoke to me from my television. Well, not mine. His. My dad’s.

“You talked to me. Through the TV.”

“I told you she would know.” said the man. “Now, where is he? We need to find him, and time is flying.”

“I don’t know. He said he had some things to do and would be back soon, which is why I made enough breakfast for him. I had honestly thought he would be back before I woke up.”

“He left last night?”

“Sometime. I was mostly asleep and someone came to the door. I didn’t see them, just heard the door and then he told me to go back to sleep and that he would be back soon.”

“Tell us how the thief got through the door.”

“I saw the knob turning, even though it was supposed to be locked, so I pulled the chain. They put something through the door that hooked onto the chain and closed the door, and then the chain fell off. I ran into the bathroom and locked that door, and heard them trashing the room. That’s all I know until you slid your ID under the door.”

The two looked at each other, and the man went outside. The woman looked at me with an intensity that I had only seen before from my father, and then only when he was really upset.

“You are in great danger right now. We aren’t sure where your father is, but those who are chasing him, you will be the next target because you were in his apartment. Will you come with us, so we can keep you safe?”

“Safe from who?” I was feeling worried. I knew nothing about these people. I had seen the man’s badge, but I had no way of really knowing if it was real. It’s not like I saw them all the time. And I hadn’t even seen it long enough to register a name. “Is it the drug dealer across the alley?”

The woman started. “The what? Show me.” The man walked back into the apartment, and the woman told him that I had seen drug dealers across the alley. I went to the window, and showed them the apartment I had noticed, and described what I had seen. They asked if I could identify any of the dealers. “Maybe?” I hedged. I knew I could. I could draw the five that were there the most often, and several of the most frequent visitors. I wasn’t sue how many I could draw well enough that they would be recognizable, but certainly eight, maybe a round dozen. I wasn’t going to tell these people that, though, until I was more certain. Drawing well what I had seen was something I had always been able to do. My Neurologist called it my trade-off for the seizures. I always asked if I could trade back.

The truth was, though, that sometimes I drew things that hadn’t happened yet. Deja vu happens to everyone, and it happens really often to people with epilepsy. I started drawing the things that seemed familiar, and then I started drawing things that I saw when I was feeling that way while letting my mind drift, and damned if they didn’t happen again, when I would feel deja vu later. I hadn’t told my neurologist about that. I hadn’t told anyone. My mom was already sure I was crazy; she thought I had inherited it from my dad.

The two almost dragged me from the apartment. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go with them, but I also wasn’t sure how to refuse. They seemed so sure I would be safer, and her voice had come from my TV. It was weird. I really needed to know why.

They were picking stuff up to take with them. They picked up my sketchbook and asked if I knew what it was, and what my dad did with it. I laughed. They let me bring it, and looked at me funny.

So now I’m in a ‘safe house’. I don’t have my phone. That was somehow lost at the apartment. I suspect they are using it to try and track my dad. Mom will be worried when I don’t talk to her later today, but that’s a good thing, because she will move heaven and earth to get me back. Right now all I want is to go home. But that’s not the weirdest thing.

The last picture I sketched in my notebook before I left Philadelphia? It was what is in front of me right now. The woman, Karen, who came and got me, another person I’ve never seen before sitting in a living room, on a pair of overstuffed chairs, talking. A plant behind them. Landscapes on the wall. Persian carpet on the floor. It’s all right there. I’m staring at it and wondering what it means. The only difference is that there is a man standing in the doorway.

The agent, who says his name is Dave, comes up behind me, looks at the picture. “It’s good. But who’s that in the doorway?” 

“He’s one of the druggies from across the alley. I don’t know why he’s there, though.”

“One of your druggies? You can draw them?”

Suddenly there was a knock at the doorjamb and we both looked up. The druggie was standing there. “We found him. He’s in Muir Beach.” As he said it, I felt the strongest sense of deja vu of my life, and knew I was about to have a horrible seizure. I immediately lay on the floor, leaving the sketchbook on the sofa.

The voices around me became less distinct, as the world fell out of focus. Damnit, now? Really?

The next I remember, I was on the floor and the woman was there next to me. “I’ll bet you feel postictal for real now. Just rest. Do you feel up to getting back on the couch yet?” 

I nodded weakly, and she helped me get on the couch, and let me lie down. After a few minutes, I tried to jerk upright.

“Just relax.”

“But I’m on my sketchbook”

“We moved it for you.”

I think I went to sleep after that.

When I woke up, I felt better. I always do after a post-post-ictal sleep. It’s only later, when I know what happened during the seizure or what I said during the post-ictal haze, that I feel awful. The room was dark; it was night outside. I was alone in the room. I got up to go to my own room. On the way I met Karen.

“Feeling better?” I wondered if she ever spoke above a hush. It was like talking to my dad. 

“I am. I think I still need to sleep the rest of the night, though, so my rhythm doesn’t get off. Where is my sketchbook?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll find out and you’ll have it when you wake up, okay?” I wondered who these people were. What kind of agents could just hang out with a kid? 

“Is my dad all right? Will he be back soon?”

“I’ll have more complete answers for you in the morning, but for now he’s okay, and we hope he’ll be here in the morning.”

I went to bed, this time in the actual bedroom they had given me when we got here. It was like a hotel room. The furniture was bland but comfortable enough. I was soon asleep. This too was part of the routine; Once I finished my recovery, I needed to get back to my schedule or I would be likely to be having more and more seizure and related activity.

When I woke up in the morning, I could smell breakfast cooking. My first thought was that it had all been a nightmare, and that I needed to draw it, but when I opened my eyes I saw that I was in the bed in the safe house. At least my dad was supposed to be here this morning. I really could smell bacon and eggs, so maybe he was. I walked into the kitchen, and there he was. It seemed like more than a day since I had seen him, but that’s all it had been.

“Sit down, Alex. We need to talk.”

He set the eggs on the table by the plate covered in bacon — more than we two could eat — and looked closely at me. 

“I guess I should start with where I went yesterday. I had an emergency call that I needed to take, but that should have only needed me to be gone for a half hour or so. It turned out to be a trap. You clearly know that I’m more than just a failed writer at this point. I’ll answer everything I can, but the more you know, the more danger you’ll be in.”

I think he expected me to start with asking him about where he had been, or what he really did do, but instead I just pulled out my sketchbook. The first thing I showed him was the picture of the three people in the room yesterday. I pointed out Karen and her interlocutor, and then the druggie.

“He’s not a druggie, is he. He’s some kind of agent. That whole apartment was watching you, not doing drugs.” They weren’t exactly questions, because I was pretty sure I knew the answer. 

“It was a station. They weren’t watching me, but it was convenient that I was across the alley from them. We work together.”

“I drew this before it happened. Before I had met or seen any of them, or seen this house, or knew any of this. Before I got on the plane to California. How?”

“I don’t know. But I need to show you something.”

He looked around the kitchen, and then he stood up. And then he rose off the floor and was standing, halfway between the floor and ceiling. He looked at me as if this would completely shock me. After a moment, he sat back down.

I opened my sketchbook and flipped through until I found the picture I was looking for. There, standing in midair in this kitchen, was my father.

Two days later, I went back to my mother’s house. I was still a minor, after all, and still had to follow the laws. But I had a new case worker at school the next fall. It was Karen.


End file.
